Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  He realized this with a sullen sense, of satisfaction, — his brain was still heavy and confused with drink, though like many sodden brutes of his type he had the appearance of being sober. He sat and watched the hedgerows, the trees, the farms, the scattered villages all fly past him, as it were, in the maddest hurry, — the air lashed his face like a stinging wave of water, — the skies and the earth mingled gradually into one gray monotone of color as the evening darkened slowly down. One curious cluster of unnaturally bright spots remained with him, however, and always danced in front of his eyes — a gleam of yellow, as of primroses in bloom, — a whiteness, as of a-woman’s garment, — and a dark red stain, as of blood. He was worried by these vivid flickerings of memory, — yet he knew quite well what they were. He knew he had killed Mrs. Everton, — the ‘dolly wife’ as he had called her, — and he was not sorry. He was vaguely frightened when he thought of it, but he was not sorry. There was no penitence or regret within him. In a dull sort of way he tried to argue with himself that it had to be. His clouded thoughts constantly reverted to Jacynth with a bitterness none the less intense because familiar and futile. The only girl he ever loved! — the only girl he ever loved — He repeated this over and over again till it set itself like a worded refrain to the rush of the car. She was a real beauty, she was!

  And he had been robbed of her! Never, never should he forget the night when he went home to his cottage meaning to be kind and gentle to worn and ailing Jennie, and she had begun to cry and speak of Jacynth, and to say how parson’s wife had told her a tale, — and he had sworn at her and rushed out of the house cursing her for a shrew and a burden on his life. Then he had gone to find Jacynth, and she had mocked him and said she was tired of him, and that she was going away from hateful Shadbrook, where there was nothing but tale-bearing and mischief-making all day and all night. And driven half mad between the two women, sweetheart and wife, he had gone and drunk himself blind and silly, and then Jacynth had left the village without so much as a good-by. And — Jennie had died — poor Jennie! — and all this peck of trouble had been brought about by the ‘dolly wife’ — the little baby-faced creature he had just left lying dead among the primroses. He had killed her, — and now he admitted to himself that he had meant to kill her. But it would be easy to swear that the gun went off by accident. Then there would be a verdict of manslaughter, — not murder — not murder. He would escape hanging somehow, — he was quite sure of that. The law was merciful nowadays! If the halfpenny newspapers were to be believed, law really existed more for the protection than the punishment of criminals. Some needy barrister would take up his case and make a reputation out of it! These and many other stupid and half-formed ideas and plans occupied his brain as he was borne swiftly along over miles and miles of open country, — there was no necessity to talk. His companion was not communicative, being absorbed in the business of driving the car, and when he spoke at all it was only to praise his machine’s racing abilities. At about nine o’clock they entered a small town, where, in the center of the principal street, the tempting signal lights of a showy public-house flared brilliantly through the darkness. Here Kiernan suggested a stoppage and a drink.

  “I’ve gone far enough for to-night,” — he said— “And I’m much obliged t’ye for the finest ride I’ve ever had!” He laughed at this and repeated it. “The finest ride I’ve ever had! Come an’ ‘ave a glass afore we parts company!”

  The driver shook his head.

  “Thanks, I’d rather not!” he answered, very decidedly— “I’m bound to get this car to London to-night, and I want all my nerve. The stuff they sell in these sort of places,” — and he indicated the public-house with a jerk of his finger— “is just rank poison. Besides I’m a temperance man.”

  “Temp’rance!” Kiernan gave a loud guffaw as the car stopped and he dismounted— “Or teetotal?”

  “No, not teetotal,” — said the man, good-humoredly— “I’ve never taken the pledge. Just temperance.”

  “Oh!” — and Kiernan’s heavy face darkened— “An’ what’s the good of temp’rance to ye? Eh? What’s the good?”

  The man smiled.

  “Well, I get better wages to begin with,” — he replied— “And I’m trusted by my firm. That’s something.”

  “Oh ay! That’s something,” assented Dan, grudgingly— “But it isn’t enjoyin’ life. We can’t only live once, an’ I sez let’s get all we can out of it afore we dies an’ ‘as done with it— “He broke off suddenly, with a scared look.

  The man looked at him curiously — then nodded.

  “Every one to his liking!” he said— “Some folks are happiest drunk, and others are more comfortable sober. Live and let live! Good-night!”

  “Stop a bit!” and Kiernan stared confusedly about him— “We’ve come along so fast that I don’t rightly know whereabouts I am. What part o’ the country is this?”

  “We’re in Wiltshire just now,” answered the car-driver— “And this is a nice little town enough to stay in. You’ll’ find all you want in there,” — here he pointed again to the public-house— “Good beds and the usual tipple! Wish you a pleasant evening!”

  And in another moment, with a droning whirr as of the wings of a monstrous dragon-fly, he was off and out of sight.

  With his departure a sudden sense of overpowering loneliness fell on Kiernan. He stood transfixed, lacking all power and energy to move. He had not thought he should feel like this when left to himself. The night seemed to close round him like a black circle suggestive of dark prison walls, — there was no way out of it. A great dread was upon him to an extent he had never imagined possible. He began calculating how long it was likely to be before the police started on his track. He knew how slowly things were done in Shadbrook; he knew it would take a considerable time to get in touch with the proper authorities, — they would have to make out a warrant for his arrest, and the only magistrate whose residence was anywhere near the village was Squire Hazlitt, of Shadbrook Hall, and he was in London. They would have to go further afield for a legal signature, and all the journeying to and fro for the completion of the necessary formalities was so much loss to them and gain to him. He had heard the clock strike six just before he had left the primrose wood, — now it was past nine. Six to seven, seven to eight, eight to nine! Three whole hours since — since the murder! Much might be done in three hours, especially in these days of rapid telegraphic and telephonic communication, — too much for his complete safety.

  Vague and innumerable terrors rose up in his mind; — he tried — he was always trying — to forget the small white fallen figure lying face downward among last autumn’s brown leaves and the spring primroses. When they found her, what would be said? That Dan Kiernan had killed her, of course, because his discharged gun was lying beside her. Why had he been such a fool as to leave his gun there? Never mind! it would show them he was not afraid of being caught. He had plenty of pluck, — he would brave it out! Would they find her body soon, he wondered? Yea, surely! — she would be missed from home — her husband would probably go and look for her, — and at this thought he burst into a loud and involuntary fit of laughter. The noise of it, echoing through the quiet street in which he stood, frightened him. He began to tremble violently. Then he looked about him and saw the bright lights of the public-house, twinkling their devil’s welcome to homeless wanderers. His fears suddenly subsided. Drink! That was the cure for all trouble! That would make a man forget that he had a murder on his soul! Drink! The burning poison that leaps at once to the brain, scorching every delicate cell and withering up every pulsation of thought, memory or regret! Drink! He had his week’s wages in his pocket — he would drink every penny of the money! He would drink to-night as he had never drunk before, even if he died for it! There were nearly two hours yet before the bar would close — he would not waste another moment of that precious portion of time! There was companionship in the warm and well-lit hostelry, — he could hear men’s voices mingli
ng with laughter and singing; — once in there he would escape from the cold lonely silence of the night and the blackness of the sky which arched over him like a vast dome faintly bespangled with stars, — and he would cease to listen — as he was half unconsciously listening now — for the tramp of feet that should follow him up and march beside him to jail, — for the first word that should make him the prisoner of the law till his crime was either condoned or expiated. He pushed open the door of the public-house and entered, — it swung heavily to behind him.

  For a long time the street outside remained quite empty and deserted. Towards eleven o’clock some of the customers at the bar came out, more or less the worse for their potations, and with hoarse good-nights, went their several ways steadily or staggerly; — a smart-looking young woman, wearing a white blouse, with her hair dressed to an exaggerated height above her forehead, opened one of the windows and looked out, leaning her bare arms across the sill and smiling impudently at the departing topers, — till all suddenly there came a louder clamor of men’s tongues raised in angry altercation.

  “Out you go!” shouted one rough voice— “No drunkards allowed on these ’ere premises !”

  “If ’e won’t go through the door, chuck ’im out o’ winder!” cried another.

  A furious scuffling and stamping ensued, accompanied by a volley of oaths and such coarse language as is unfortunately common to the British working-man when under the influence of anger or alcohol, — then the door of the public-house was violently thrown open and held back, while with unfriendly force Dan Kiernan was dragged forward by several pairs of hands which literally flung him into the street, where he fell heavily full length, cutting his face and bruising his body severely. This done, the door was quickly banged to and barred, — the lights in the windows were all extinguished, and in a few seconds the erstwhile brilliantly illuminated house presented a closed dark exterior to the quiet night.

  The wretched heap of man, hurled into the gutter by those who had made profit of his wretchedness, lay for some time inert, — then after many futile attempts, he at last managed to rise, first into a sitting posture, and finally to his feet. Swaying unsteadily backwards and forwards, with the blood trickling from a gash on his forehead, no hat on, and his clothes torn and disheveled, he was a shameful, pitiful object, — a creature far worse of aspect than any beast of the field, — a disgrace to the very name of humanity. Yet drugged and stupefied as he was, some feeble glimmering of reason flickered in his poisoned brain, for as soon as he found himself standing upright, he shook his clenched fist at the black frontage of the tavern from which he had been so summarily ejected.

  “Curse ye!” he said, savagely— “Curse ye for a damned dirty cheat and liar! Takin’ my money as long as there was any to get, an’ kickin’ me out when my pockets was cleared! Curse ye! May ye drown yerselves in yer own devil’s brew and go to h — l I in it!”

  Choking with rage, he shook his fist again threateningly and staggered away. Reeling down the street, with no idea where he was going, he came in contact with a lamp-post and nearly fell headlong, but righting himself by a miracle, suddenly caught sight of his own shadow flung on the opposite wall by the reflection of the gaslight above him. It was a hideously magnified and distorted shadow, and he charged at it furiously.

  “Come on!” he shouted— “Follerin’ me an’ spyin’ on me, are ye, ye great hulkin’ fool! Wants a good all-round bruisin’, does ye? All right!— ’ere y’are an’ welcome! I’ll pound ye into a jelly for five shillin’s! Come on!”

  He ran forward and drove his fist hard into the wall, — the shock and pain of the impact forced him to realize the absurdity of his action, and he began to laugh boisterously. His laughter was so long and wild and loud, that it brought a woman to the door of a small house close by — a pale, weak, terrified-looking woman who, with a morsel of lighted candle in her hand, peered out at him with scared colorless eyes.

  “Is that you, Bill?” she asked.

  Dan stared at her.

  “No, ‘tain’t Bill — it’s me!” he said, with a stupid leer— “Why are ye up so late, my darlin’! Wantin’ Bill, eh? Who’s ’e?”

  The woman drew back, startled.

  “Bill’s my husband,” — she answered— “He’s generally bad with the drink, — I thought ’twas him.”

  She retreated, and he shouted after her —

  “’Ere, old girl! Stop a bit! Which is the road to London?” —

  She put out a thin hand and pointed down the street.

  “That way — straight ahead, if you’re trampin’ it,” — she said.

  And with that she shut and locked the door.

  He waited a minute, trying to understand what he intended next to do with himself. Then he started off to walk, or rather to stumble along in the direction she had indicated. Nothing seemed ‘straight ahead’ to him, — it was all crooked — all up hill and down dale. Rough edges in the pavement rose up like waves of the sea, and sank again as his foot touched them. Circles of light swam before his eyes and broke up into saw-edged fragments of prismatic color as he watched them, — the darkness of the night swirled round him like a giant wheel with such velocity that sometimes he stupidly threw out his hands to try and stop its incessant gyrations. The freshness of the air rather increased than relieved his sensations, and he sidled about and rolled forward on his way more like a shapeless block of driftwood in a swift stream than a human being capable of self-volition. Presently he found himself on an open country road, with wide fields extending on either side. The town he had just left lay behind him, its few twinkling lights sparkling dimly like glow-worms on a smooth lawn. Some clumps of trees, with their lower branches lopped off in the hideous fashion ordained of county councils, waved their heads solemnly to and fro in a light rising wind like funereal plumes set on the hearse of a dead nature, — to his giddy and confused brain they looked like inexplicable tall objects with wildly trimmed hats on, bobbing and bowing at him in impudent mockery. He shook his fists at them and shouted idiotic nothings. He found enjoyment in shaking his fists, — the action amused and invigorated him. He felt that he was hitting some weak creature that had no power to hit him back again, and there was a pleasure in thus playing the bully-coward. He began to sing, or rather to howl scraps of comic music-hall ditties, and staggered from side to side of the solitary high-road, bellowing more discordantly than an angry swine. By-and-bye he took to dancing, and for a considerable time entertained himself by uncouth caperings which scattered the dust around him in clouds, — then, as if moved by an impetus not his own, he started running as though for a race. He went perhaps more than half a mile at this rate before he tripped over a large stone and fell flat on a stretch of grass by the roadside. The grass was wet and soft — its cool contact refreshed his heated body, and he raised himself into a comfortable sitting posture, clasping his knees with both arms. His head still buzzed and whirled, — but a few wandering thoughts commenced rising, like phosphorescent fires out of his muddled swamp of brain, — thoughts that were not connected so much with the present, as with the past. He seemed to see himself as a young man, tall, fresh-colored, with bright eyes, and a healthy vigorous frame, — a young man who had good work and could earn good wages, and who was thought well of by his employers. A picture of Jennie his wife, as he had known her first, presented itself all unexpectedly before him — Jennie, a little, shy, gentle girl with pretty brown hair and blue eyes, and a smile that went straight to a man’s heart. How loving she had been! — poor Jennie! He had married her and they had been happy, — happy save for the loss of their two children who had died in infancy. And she — she was dead too now, was Jennie, — he had seen her lying like a figure of old wax in her coffin. And now — why, now she was here — actually here, staring at him! — the figure of old wax with the black coffin-edge framing her in like the frame of a picture! He gave a horrified cry.

  “Go away!” he yelled, in an access of delirious terror— “Go
away! You’re dead! Dead an’ buried! What d’ye want with me?”

  Then, as the dream-impression faded, he laughed foolishly and wondered why he had thought of Jennie at all or of the days when he was young.

  He got up and began to walk again, — he was steadier on his feet now, and he kept on a fairly straight line of movement. He realized that the stars were shining above him in the black-azure April sky, and after a little while he was able to distinguish his way along the road by their pale yet certain light. His steps grew firmer and more regular, and the swaying movement of his body gradually subsided. Some of the fumes of drink were clearing off, though he was none the less heavily drunk. His thinking powers, never very great, now sprang into unusual and abnormal activity, but instead of wandering like will-o’-the-wisps in and out the poison-clogged cells of his brain, they brought forward prominent and exaggerated shapes that seemed to detach themselves from his own personality and surround him like separate ghostly tormentors. Chief among them came the tall slender figure of ‘Parson’ Everton, — the man with the pale, resolute face and deep-set eyes — the man whose voice with its mellow, steady tone had in a certain sense moved him to shame when he heard it saying ‘God forgive you!’ He remembered that incident in its every detail. He, Dan Kiernan, had uttered vague threats against Mrs. Everton in her husband’s presence, and that husband, hearing him, had replied simply in one phrase—’ God forgive you!’ — And now? When ‘Parson’ should see his ‘dolly wife’ dead, with the blood oozing and creeping through her white gown as he, her murderer, had seen it ooze and creep, would he still say ‘God forgive you’? He wondered. A sudden shivering nausea seized him, and great drops of sweat broke out on his forehead. He stopped a moment and looked about him. Hush! What was that? A woman’s cry? He listened, his whole body thrilling with inexplicable fear. A bird flew past him with a whirr of beating wings, repeating the cry — it was a small downy owl. His eyes followed the flight of the creature with an uneasy sense of superstitious dread. He listened again. There was not a sound anywhere except the low murmur of the wind. Long, wide, monotonous and solitary, the road stretched on and on before him, — there was no sign of a house or even a last year’s haystack anywhere. It was one gray level line, extending into indefinite distance.